


Who Are You?

by stillwaters01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were many ways of asking someone who they were. Five people who asked – and found out - who John Watson was during ASiP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Are You?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
> 
> Written: Initial ideas: 10/28/14. Drafted and edited: 11/6 – 11/7/14 
> 
> Notes: This piece started with wanting to explore why John uses his cane on his weak/injured side rather than on his strong/uninjured side, which is how canes are supposed to be used. It grew into an exploration of who John Watson is, as asked – both directly and indirectly – by five characters during ASiP. Dialogue quoted and paraphrased from the episode does not belong to me. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your continued support. I cherish every response.

 

 

 

 

**1\. Mike Stamford**

Mike Stamford was an old friend and colleague, so John Watson wasn’t a stranger to him. At least he _hadn’t_ been. _This_ John Watson, however, the one who limped past Stamford’s “John!” as if it was someone else’s name and only responded to the subsequent “John Watson!” as if he had needed the clarification as well, who shook Mike’s hand distractedly while leaning heavily on a cane planted on the wrong side of his body ……well, Stamford didn’t expect someone to remain exactly the same after military service, but he honestly wasn’t sure who this man was anymore.

 

So he asked.

 

Sitting on a park bench, sharing a coffee and stilted conversation punctuated with physically uncomfortable silences, John stated that he couldn’t afford London on an army pension.

 

Stamford saw his opportunity and ran with it. “Ah, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

 

It was a prompting question disguised as a statement; the space between Stamford’s exhale and John’s inhale asking the person beneath the tight military posture and defeated weariness dulling a once vibrant face, the most basic of questions.

 

_Who are you?_

 

John responded without hesitation, firing back as he had been subtly fired upon, with a bitten off, “I’m not the John Watson…..”

 

He didn’t - or couldn’t - finish.

 

He didn’t say “you know.” Didn’t even say “you _knew_.” It was as if he wasn’t sure that he was John Watson at _all_ – past, present, or future.

 

Stamford had watched John rub at his right thigh – the one he’d gestured to when stating he’d been shot – a few moments before. Watched him now, words trailing off into bitter self-loathing and dangerously coiled anger, as he attempted to hide a left-handed tremor behind an adjustment of his coffee cup, stretching the fingers like one would relieve cramped muscles.

 

John had always been an interesting puzzle, an endlessly layered man. But this John Watson……it was as if he’d been taken apart and put back together all wrong – pieces sticking out sharp and jagged, layers turned inside-out and upside-down, everything tight and washed out and ill-fitting. The dry humor was still there, but diluted with the weariness of effort and hardened with a cynical, rather than sarcastic, edge. Confidence was usurped by hopelessness and the emptiness exuded by a man whose rage was buried deep under the weight of an exhaustion too heavy to let it out.

 

And while Stamford was teaching now, he certainly hadn’t lost his basic diagnostic skills. John was holding his cane on his right side – the same side that he indicated his injury had occurred. They were both doctors; both of them knew that patients were taught to use a cane on their strong side, not their weak or injured one. So why wasn’t John holding the cane on his uninjured, and in his case, dominant, left side? Unless the hand movement hadn’t been a tremor, but rather an attempt to dispel the pins-and-needles feeling of paresthesias, in which case there may have been an injury to John’s left arm as well, making it difficult to hold the cane on the proper side.

 

Mike sighed at his inward study. Sherlock would probably be able to figure it all out in a split-second glance, like he did with everything.

 

And then, in a fit of something that could have been coincidence, or destiny falling into place, John echoed Sherlock’s earlier words about difficult flatmates, and Mike thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could help John see who he was again.

 

 

**2\. Sally Donovan**

Sally Donovan was a law enforcement officer. So when she saw an unfamiliar man about to cross the tape behind Sherlock, she asked the question directly – but not to John himself. Instead, she asked the insufferable, dark-coated shadow that Lestrade routinely insisted on settling over their crime scenes.

 

“Uh, who’s this?”

 

Sherlock’s response was as surprising as the new presence at his side. “Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson.”

 

Donovan couldn’t hide her incredulity as she repeated the word, the one that simply didn’t fit – in a sharp, almost painful, cognitive dissonance - with Sherlock’s usual methods. “A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?” She didn’t mean it in just a ‘who would work with you?’ manner, but also a ‘who would you respect enough to work with on equal footing?’ one.

 

This Dr. Watson tried to make peace by offering to leave, but Sherlock held the tape up so he could cross and proceeded with his usual offensive x-ray vision, targeting herself and Anderson for ridicule.

 

Dr. Watson didn’t say a word. Just observed.

 

When he came out later, abandoned by Sherlock and his ever-changing intellectual whims, Donovan actually felt a bit sorry for him. He seemed like a decent person. But as she directed him to the main road toward a cab, she had to ask again, still unclear, still trying to classify this stranger, this doctor introduced as a colleague to a man who had been the very definition of lone wolf oddity for as long as she’d known him.

 

“But you’re not his friend. He doesn’t _have_ friends. So who are you?”

 

_Who are you?_

 

Dr. Watson paused, leaning stiffly on his cane as he considered the question. “I…..I’m nobody,” he said.

 

Donovan could see that he really meant it, and not just in terms of who he was to Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock had brought him to a crime scene, to his own personal playground - something he had never done before. So this Dr. Watson certainly wasn’t _nobody_. Donovan still wasn’t quite sure _who_ he was, but he was definitely _somebody_. Somebody that deserved better than becoming a memory, another body left in Sherlock’s wake. “Bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy.”

 

For a man who’d had to pause and consider who he was moments before, Dr. Watson’s response was immediate - clipped, challenging, and sure. “Why?”

 

Already loyal. Like a friend. The sort that Sherlock didn’t have.

 

She already knew she was wasting her breath.

 

 

**3\. Greg Lestrade**

DI Lestrade had the silver hair of a career law enforcement officer and the weary, but proudly disciplined shoulders of a man who still believed in what he did, despite all he had seen. He immediately noticed that there was a stranger trailing Sherlock in addition to the usual whip of coat fabric and indignant rage of his team being insulted. So he asked swiftly and directly. But not to the stranger himself. Instead, he asked the man he’d already called in for answers.

 

“Who’s this?” Lestrade asked, his back to the limping newcomer with a quiet presence who was beginning to put on the protective gear at Sherlock’s prompt.

_Who are you?_

 

Sherlock’s response was a blunt, maddeningly unhelpful, “he’s with me.”

 

Well, _obviously_.

 

Lestrade suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and pressed on. “But who _is_ he?” he asked again, demanding without _sounding_ demanding; a carefully practiced dance.

 

Sherlock’s voice dropped to an arctic ‘don’t argue with me’ tone as he did something he despised doing: repeated himself. “I said, he’s with me.”

 

And there was Lestrade’s answer.

 

It was the word choice that told Lestrade more than the icy tone ever could, told him who this stranger was, his potential. Of the arrival of something new and unprecedented. Because Sherlock’s “he’s with me” indicated that the man himself was important in some way, that he meant something to Sherlock as a person, not just as the possessor of something Sherlock could use or manipulate. Lestrade soon found out that the stranger, Dr. Watson, was a doctor. Sherlock could have said that, specified that he was using the physician’s expertise to examine the body.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He said, “he’s with me.”

 

Not ‘he’s working with me’ or ‘I’m using his knowledge of something.’ Not even a thinly veiled ‘I’m planning to ridicule his lack of knowledge or belief in my methods.’ No, Sherlock used words that put Dr. Watson on an almost equal footing with him. And not only that, but Sherlock brought the man directly to the crime scene. Lestrade knew that Sherlock would occasionally consult experts in other fields, but he never brought those consultants onto a scene, preferring to go to them privately, bringing the information back to Scotland Yard with his own lips.

 

So, the man’s sheer presence, the “he’s with me”, the unseen but clearly felt nonverbal response to Sherlock’s ironic statement about proper crime scene clothing……this Dr. Watson was somebody, all right.

 

Somebody, who, in the end, was able to make Sherlock stutter, stop, and actually backtrack in the middle of a deduction about who shot their serial killer and thus saved his life. Because Lestrade followed Sherlock’s line of sight and knew who Dr. Watson was: a marksman, a fighter, acclimatized to violence, with a strong moral principle and nerves of steel. Well, good. He’d need nerves of steel dealing with Sherlock on a regular basis. They all did.

 

But most of all, Lestrade saw that Dr. Watson was exactly what Donovan had thought impossible.

 

Sherlock’s friend.

 

 

**4\. Mycroft Holmes**

Mycroft, as always, saw even more than his famous consulting detective brother. He’d arranged this initial meeting with John Watson very specifically – throw someone off balance and you’d see who they really were. So the very meeting itself was one simple question, albeit delivered in Mycroft’s unique brand of ‘direct by indirect questioning via omnisciently threatening knowledge.’

 

_Who are you?_

 

Every one of Dr. Watson’s movements, every response, both verbal and nonverbal, gave Mycroft answers to that question, data to compile.

 

But he still asked.

 

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

 

John’s “I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him….yesterday” was as honestly baffled as those who knew Sherlock were at John’s sudden presence. When he expressed his wariness about Mycroft’s interest in Sherlock, Mycroft could see that John wasn’t just worried for his own potentially precarious position, but as to why Mycroft was pressing for information on Sherlock, a man to whom John, by his own admission, had no real connection. There was a protectiveness there that hinted at something new, as well as a dry observation both insightful and welcome as John clarified, “I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

 

Mycroft’s pointed, “you’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?” was met with the sort of half-smile of understanding of someone who had known Sherlock for years.

 

_Definitely_ something new.

 

Mycroft asked again.

 

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

 

John’s response was as steady as his hand. “I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.”

 

There was nothing thinly veiled about the threat in Mycroft’s, “it could be.”

 

But John’s response was equally threatening, not a hint of false bravado. “It _really_ couldn’t.” There was steel in those words, in the drawn out qualifier. And not just steel, but loyalty. A loyalty that was far from blind or superficial.

 

Yes, Mycroft learned a lot about who John Watson was. He saw a left-handed man who wore a wristwatch on his dominant, rather than non-dominant hand – a rare habit. A man who held a cane in his right hand for a right lower extremity psychosomatic limp because the intermittent tremor and lingering nerve damage in his left hand from his true wound made it too difficult to use on the proper side. A man whose calloused right hand held not only a cane, but was also familiar with a gun. A man who was not easily intimidated, who did not back down from danger or threats, who repeatedly stood up for himself and demanded to know who Mycroft was after his own therapy notes were thrown in his face, even as John knew he wouldn’t get an answer. A man who had seen the battlefield, who missed it, who had an intermittent tremor in his left hand, but a perfectly steady one while under stress.

 

But most of all, Mycroft saw that loyalty. A loyalty he tested by accusing John of being “very loyal, very quickly” when he refused the money.

 

John’s “no, I’m not, I’m just not interested” confirmed what Mycroft already knew. That John Watson could not be bought, that his loyalty was true.

 

That this man, who had taken an oath of loyalty to his patients, to Queen and country, had somehow, without even realizing it, now taken one to Sherlock Holmes as well.

 

 

**5\. Sherlock Holmes**

 

Sherlock prided himself on being a man of observation and science. As a scientist in many ways, he was no stranger to conducting multiple experiments in a search for consistent results. So he approached the question of John Watson in the same manner.

 

_Who are you?_

 

The first time was during his initial deductive approach in the lab, asking “Iraq or Afghanistan?” It was how he’d ask anyone who they were, by having them verify what he had already deduced. Afghanistan was confirmed.

 

John Watson was a soldier, with a phone that gave his family history.

 

He asked again at Baker Street, doubling back on his way to the Brixton crime scene. Stated that John was a doctor, an army doctor, and asked, “any good?” Asking, subtly, if John had what it took to come with him, both the interest and the skill.

 

John’s “very good” was as confident as his “oh God, yes” was eager for the thrill of danger.

 

John Watson was a skilled physician. One with an appetite for adrenaline.

 

But it was in the wake of the cabbie’s death, under a night sky illuminated with the rhythmic flashes of emergency lights, that Sherlock truly asked John who he was. After quietly pointing out that he knew John was the one who made the shot and suggesting they move along to get the powder burns out of his fingers, Sherlock looked right at John and asked, “are you all right?” It was a serious question, looking for a serious answer, low tones rich with honest gratitude, concern, and a hint of insatiable curiosity.

 

John’s “yes, of course I’m all right” told Sherlock that John was responding more to the possibility of physical harm, rather than any emotional effect, so he asked again.

 

“Well, you have just killed a man.” The space that followed was filled with unspoken questions, the _real_ questions. _Was my deduction correct? Are you a man who only kills based on strong moral principle? Who only shot once I was in danger? Did you shoot because you actually cared whether I, as a person, lived or died?_

 

_Who are you?_

 

John’s “yes, I…..” was broken by a pause and a little lopsided smile, and the subsequent “that’s true” could have led down a very different road from Sherlock’s deductions. But then came the truth, spoken simply, plainly, and with a confident, dry humor Sherlock already found himself enjoying. A lifesaver’s affirmation in a no-fuss joke. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

 

And all of Sherlock’s tumultuous inner questions were answered, his deductions confirmed in the unspoken words underlying John’s response. _He was going to kill you. I wasn’t about to let that happen. You’re all right, so then yes, so am I._     

 

Sherlock smiled and went along with the joke, adjusting to the warm feeling settling in his chest, dispelling the vague chill that had most certainly _not_ been shock. He saw who John was – in words both spoken and silently layered, in military at-ease posture, in an action of behind-the-scenes bravery for which he felt no need to take credit. John was loyal. Loyal to _him_ , to Sherlock Holmes.

 

It was new, surprising, but not unwelcome. It was a defining characteristic of something Sherlock had never really had.

 

More than a colleague.

 

John Watson was a friend.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
